


In Progress

by Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, mild suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:11:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds a note attached the front door: "Crime in Progress - Please Disturb."  But this time, Mrs. Hudson is not the apparent victim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Progress

Well before he reached the door, John saw the note fluttering underneath the brass knocker.

_Crime in progress. Please disturb_

“What the hell…”

His heart leapt into his throat. Two weeks ago, Sherlock had left an identical note, and John had put aside his Hippocratic Oath in favour of helping (quite violently) restore a little balance to the Universe (the knuckles on his left hand were still sore).

Mrs. Hudson was safely out of town this weekend, so what could possibly be happening up there?

“Sherlock? Are you all right?” John called as he took the stairs two at a time up to the door of their flat.

It was standing eerily ajar.

John pushed it open with the tips of his fingers, but he didn’t step inside. His heart was screaming at him to run,  _run in there NOW, burst down every door, but find him_! His mind and his military training, however, forced him to wait.  _You can’t help him if you’ve got a bullet in your head. Use proper caution, soldier._

He saw Sherlock’s black suit jacket crumpled in a heap near the far wall. Closer to him, he found dark socks, and a black leather shoe, laces still tied. The shoe’s mate was farther off, upside down, next to a kitchen chair that had been knocked over.

Two steps inside…. silence. Stillness. Through the side entrance to the kitchen, he could see plate and a mug smashed on the floor near the stove. Someone had tracked coffee from there all the way to the hall that led to Sherlock’s room.

_Christ, no…._

John scanned the rest of the flat, carefully walked to the locked case where he kept his Browning, removed it, released the safety, and then proceeded, silently, toward Sherlock’s door.

Again, he found the door left slightly open. John pressed his back against the opposite wall, his gun held in both hands, and moved closer until he could see a small sliver of the room beyond.

What met his eyes made him swallow hard and fight back the urge to kick down the door right then.

Sherlock. On the bed, facing away. Wrists cuffed behind his back. White shirt open and hanging off of one shoulder. 

John set his jaw, stepped closer, took a deep breath, gripped his handgun tightly, and burst into the room.

“Don’t MOVE! Put your hands on your head!” John swept the area with his eyes, but he didn’t see any potential assailants. There was only Sherlock, bound and motionless. Breathing, though, thank God.

“I doubt I could reach my head at the moment, John,” Sherlock answered.

“Shut up, Sherlock. Not now.” John stepped back and tilted his head to look into the open closet, then leaned down quickly to see if anyone might be hiding under the bed. 

“Where are they? Sherlock, are they still here?”

No answer.

“Sherlock, talk to me.” John spun quickly and pointed his handgun toward the bedroom door, just in case he’d been followed.

“Am I not supposed to be ‘shutting up’ then?” Sherlock rolled over a bit and smiled up at John.

“What the hell’s going on?” 

Sherlock’s eyes fixed on the weapon in John’s hand. “You might want to consider putting the gun away. Or perhaps removing the clip and checking the chamber before you bring that to bed.”

John felt his head beginning to swim. “I don’t… Sherlock, what’s happening here? Have you been attacked?”  John put the safety on, and tucked the gun into the back of his jeans before climbing onto the bed. He took Sherlock’s face in his hands, and held each eyelid open for a few seconds. “Have you taken a blow to the head at all?” he asked.

“No, John. But I’ll admit I  _am_  hopeful….”

“What?” John’s voice was clipped, impatient.

Sherlock swiftly moved his legs and used them to pin John’s hips.

John bowed his head and let out an irritated sigh. “You bloody… Jesus, Sherlock, I thought you were about to be killed!”

“Killed by men who allowed me to leave an invitation on the front door?  Really, John.”

It took a superhuman amount of restraint for John to remove the gun from his waistband and set it down on the nearest flat surface instead of using it to pistolwhip the arrogant, insane bastard wrapped around him.

On further thought, John leaned forward, opened the nightstand’s drawer, and shut the gun inside. Too much of a goddamn temptation right now.

Sherlock took advantage of the position to capture John’s neck and suck hard.

A moan escaped John’s throat before he gathered his thoughts again.

“Sherlock, I am going to make you regret this.  I swear it.” John pulled away from Sherlock’s kiss and began his own assault on the long, white neck beneath him.”

“Yes, I’m rather counting on that, John.” 

**Author's Note:**

> ;-)


End file.
